


move the mountains, tame the sea

by antagonists



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Riders, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 13:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8919736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: The mountains bear clouded secrets; jewel-seeking spirits have made a home of the seas. Wear wings of night and a heart of watery tranquil, for fire gives naught but scars and a forgotten solace. Bamboo for winter, orchids for spring: these are where your most bitter memories lie, and you have always insisted on painting plum blossoms year round.





	

**Author's Note:**

> \o/ i was extremely fortunate to have been paired with [tomodraws](http://tomodraws.tumblr.com) for the ow big bang event!! go check their stuff out!
> 
> [1st piece](http://tomodraws.tumblr.com/post/154717687721/) | [2nd piece](http://tomodraws.tumblr.com/post/154811144826) | [3rd piece](http://tomodraws.tumblr.com/post/154875603301)

 

* * *

 

 

Mid-autumn. The last remnants of summer breath have collapsed into something chillier, something less kind. Genji sits on the ledge just outside of Hanzo’s conference room, tracing patterns into the lacquered wood. He’s still wearing his training gear, sweaty even in the autumn chill. His white breath hints at the colder weather to come. If he leans over the edge far enough, he can see the sheer drop from one of the highest points of their castle, a crooked plunge that would shatter his bones before killing him.

 

He isn’t afraid of heights, though; not anymore. Nai rests beside him, curled atop the castle roof like a delicate, feathery frond. Sharp claws click against the clay tiles as she hangs her head by the window. Her breath clouds the air in larger puffs, close enough to his face that he can feel warmth. He reaches out to rub at her snout and yelps when she nearly nips his hand off.

 

“You went hunting yesterday!” he admonishes, rubbing the cooling saliva on his clothes and leaving a dark smear. Nai’s eyes flicker with amusement, and Genji is momentarily distracted before he remembers the reason he’s camping outside of Hanzo’s important meeting in the first place.

 

He grows solemn. If he presses one ear closer to the window’s undecorated lattice, Genji can hear the low murmur of the guests’ voices and his brother’s unyielding business tone. To any other individual, it might seem like a completely diplomatic meeting, but Genji knows better.

 

Father is ill. The world is not kind enough to give people of their sort peaceful deaths.

 

Genji slows his breathing and closes his eyes, ignoring the autumn noises of falling leaf and soft wind behind him. Past the painted screen and shoji doors, steaming, pale tea cascades smoothly into porcelain. He can almost imagine the unfurled flower within the glass teapot bobbing, swaying slowly before becoming still. There would be his brother’s disciplined expression, reflected over the glass and in his mind’s eye. Porcelain clatters, somewhat loud and unwieldly, over the quiet thanks of the Northland representatives.

 

Somewhere, through the smell of flowery tea, there lies a hint of wicked poison.

 

His dragon growls—it’s a deep, menacing sound.

 

He pulls himself out of his trancelike state once Hanzo’s footsteps echo gently over the freshly-replaced tatami. Soon the shoji slides open with a sharp, controlled clatter, and footsteps chase the noise. The guard left behind pours more tea, and that’s the last Genji hears before opening his eyes. It is like surfacing from the bottom of a vast and clear lake.

 

“I’m in the middle of negotiations,” his brother says quietly, sliding the shoji shut and stepping behind the safety of a painted screen. His hair is dark against the backdrop of perfect, flat washi. He peers out the window of his inner study. Genji squints back, perched precariously on the ledge with Nai snorting smoke behind him.

 

“They have some kind of weapon on them,” Genji says, sullen and brooding; he always finds himself in a touchy mood when an official or any other important individual steps foot into their territory. He makes sure to speak quietly enough that Hanzo can only hear if he leans closer. The afternoon sun washes over Genji’s shoulders, past the windblown mess of his hair onto Hanzo’s cheeks. Despite the cold air, it offers a mellow sort of warmth, faint through the layers of their soft-hued robes.

 

Perfect weather for dozing outside for a few hours, but not too long before Genji would end up catching a cold.

 

“They were relieved of them before they were allowed in my study.”

 

“Yeah, but what I’m _saying_ ,” Genji glowers, “is that they still have one on them. Probably poison darts, or just poison. I smelled it, y’know. Don’t drink the tea.”

 

Hanzo opens his mouth to argue otherwise, but clicks his tongue instead and glances over his shoulder. All he sees is the smooth white of paper, the delicate patterns of sanded camphor. Behind the closed shoji, the representatives likely pretend to sip at their tea, quietly waiting to resume their discussion with Hanzo. For trade agreements, mostly, though it would not be surprising if they turned out to be assassins. With their father ill and Hanzo’s role as duteous first son, the Shimada are balancing on a fine silk thread. Genji knows he himself has been flightier, as of late. Less content.

 

“I have not sensed anything out of the ordinary.”            

 

The little sparrow snorts, irritation warring with concern. He’s never been skilled in refined expression, and it might be why he’d been so taken with such a disobedient, ill-tempered dragon. “You have your back turned to the door.”

 

Wordlessly, Hanzo shifts and presses his back into the wooden wall, staring at the same spot on the tatami that Genji does: the middle point of the eight mat room, hidden beneath his small table and blank scroll. He listens carefully for the click of porcelain, the level, deep breathing of the mighty beast behind them. “I will be more careful. In return, you must stop disrupting my meetings. And you will join me for tea ceremony this evening.”

 

“Deal,” Genji agrees, perhaps too quickly. “Maybe.”

 

“Wear proper dress,” his brother chides.

 

“Mm.”

 

It’s the only sort of agreement Genji will ever give, so Hanzo sighs and takes it with a grain of salt. Genji watches his brother roll his eyes and retreat towards the doors, frowning. By the time Hanzo turns around to the sound of wind, the dragon has taken off, glittering scales, rider and all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Nestled within snowy peaks and unforgiving rock terrain, Hanamura is a colorful distraction amidst the cold landscape. If one watches from a perch high in the trees, far enough up the mountains that the clouds seem a mere arm’s reach away, the sunset washes over the villages, giving the clay roof tiles the appearance of molten bronze. Stone paths look like rivers of slate, snaking matte counterparts to the true blue current that runs from the northwest to southeastern border.

 

A cleansing direction, of sorts, carrying impurities from night and into day. Morning sunlight looks best framed by gentle willows, or perhaps the late-blossoming ume, filtering softly through petals to scatter liquid gold onto the ground. Genji hasn’t had the patience to appreciate sunrise before, but he has begun to see the appeal; there is something different about basking in the day’s first light, surrounded by bright noises as the world stirs. Not quite as lonely as watching the full moon in solitude, but close to it.

 

Chilly breath, numbed fingers. In the mornings, dew over small meadows make them seem a soft, dreary graveyard. The mountains are somber and echo only wind past their cloudy halos. Scatterings of deep orange, deeper reds. They are fewer now, these scatterings, for autumn has begun to pass into winter.

 

Genji knows this: Hanamura is a pretty, pretty thing when surrounded with glittering white scenery—a mystic red village of myths. In the vestiges of fall, it appears to be consumed by fire.

 

The mountains here hold remains of an old dragon’s nest. Genji has ventured far enough up north that he’s seen the massive, towering cavern of what had once held a dragon’s fiery heart. The ribs are easily taller than any of the structures he’s seen, thick and overgrown with greenery. Now, he walks the seemingly unending hall of crystal bone and history, the skull a portent shadow behind him. His footsteps briefly flicker with warm sparks, then eclipse into a dark, sooty trail.

  
“Your ancestors were huge,” he tells his dragon, cheek against her mane as they fly back to the castle. She looks back at him disdainfully, scales glimmering with a pale sheen of jade. Unlike Hanzo’s vivid, domineering mount, she is nearly ghostly, flickering like candlelight in the wind to those who are less skilled in observation. He taps at the chipped, cracked scales along her back, pressing his palms into the warmth.

 

Years ago, she would have snapped her jaws at his curious touch, snorting smoke and breath roiling with ember. They have gotten better, he thinks, at knowing their boundaries. Shimada doctrines state absolute control and power over a dragon, but Genji would feel heartless trying to cage a magnificent creature meant to be a god. Her hind legs have grown crooked from grievous past injuries, long toes dark with scars, and she already looks quite small in comparison to Hanzo’s dragon.

 

He doesn’t pity her—there is something ugly in how they both understand the bitterness of being overshadowed.

 

“You’re late,” Hanzo says without looking up, not bothering to check whether Genji is wearing his robes properly. He’s already started the fire beneath the clay urn, measuring an amount of Sencha leaves before carefully setting them inside. Ever the proper young master, he’s perfected the art of serving proper tea. Genji often mistakenly lets the leaves either under or oversoak, so Hanzo doesn’t let him prepare it anymore.

 

“But I’m here, nonetheless,” Genji adds, grinning, “humbly obeying your mighty command.”

 

The first son grunts. There are fresh bandages around his left hand, disappearing up the sleeve of his robe. Genji notes the scratch below his brother’s eye, still shiny with remnants of herbal ointment. In the morning, when it is partially healed, it will be powdered over with makeup so he can maintain a pristine, untouchable image. There’s vulnerability there. It wouldn’t be surprising if Genji is the only one allowed to see it.

 

“Were you burned again, brother?”

 

“No,” Hanzo says, immediate. This isn’t the first time they’ve had this discussion, and he isn’t keen on repeating another one.

 

“It’s not something to be ashamed of.” Ignoring his brother’s denial, Genji reaches out. Hanzo flinches at first, but begrudgingly allows Genji to pull his sleeve back. Parts of the bandages are stained and hardened with dried blood. “She’s known to have killed her masters before, so I’d say you’re doing a remarkable job.”

 

“What kind of master cannot control their dragon?” Hanzo hisses. He snatches his arm back and resumes preparing the tea. It is a sour subject that only Genji himself and a few trusted attendants are aware of. Seiryu is a ruthless dragon of old, tethered to the Shimada through layers and layers of underhanded pacts. Their father had been able to wield her rage, but he has grown old and ill, and Hanzo is but a young child in her ancient eyes. The dragon is trapped beneath mountains and laden with chaining spells, only allowed freedom once Hanzo has agreed on a contract with her.

 

For all their might and omnipotence, dragons are still quite insistent on formalities and diplomacy. The majority of them, anyways.

 

“I do not control mine either; she comes and goes as she pleases, most of the time.”

 

“You will have to quell her disobedience one day.”

 

“We are but humans, dear brother.” Genji spreads his arms, palms upturned. “What could we understand of spirits and the gods, if at all?”

 

Hanzo does not deign to answer him. He instead pours the tea into the porcelain set crafted by Lady Momoko two provinces to the south, and steam curls over the soft blue landscapes painted onto polished white. Genji pretends to inspect the gold trim along the rim of the teacups.

 

Lady Momoko is quite skilled at capturing the serenity of a mountainside’s midsummer morning into delicate, prim lines of haboku style. Ever since they’d been little, Hanzo had always been enchanted with the old painter’s crafts. She’s bedridden more often than not, now, and sometimes Genji will have the castle’s responsibilities shoved to him for a few days. He does his best to disappear under the premise of scouting the boundaries whenever he senses a shift in Hanzo’s behavior.

 

The elderly craftswoman is kind, yes, but Genji finds other things more fascinating than traditional art. He still remembers the strict calligraphy lessons he’d sat in on with Hanzo, perfecting every brushstroke under his mentor’s stern, reprimanding hand. It couldn’t have been an easy task trying to get him to focus on lessons when he’d been a child, but he’s rather unrepentant about his uncouth behavior. Instead of making some miscalculated comment about their childhood, though, he simply sips at the tea.

 

“Father does not have very long left to live,” Hanzo begins, almost uncertain as he cradles his teacup carefully. This is the small side of him reserved for nothing but an empty night’s solace, and on the rare occasion, Genji’s company. “It is our duty to uphold his legacy.”

 

“ _Your_ duty,” says Genji. “I’ve no interest in those affairs and you’re well aware of that.”

 

“Your frivolity has likely contributed to his illness.” Harshly at first, then as if pleading with him: “Understand, Genji, we mustn’t take this matter lightly.”

 

Genji sets his teacup down, watches dim light glint off the golden rim. “You and Father try too hard to save my image, brother. It’s best to simply leave it be.”

 

“Father still asks how you are doing every day. Have you visited him recently?”

 

He hasn’t. Looking upon his Father’s pale, weary face sets Genji on edge. He has never enjoyed looking upon the fatally injured or sick. Memories from childhood: glimpses of strewn corpses, his mother’s broken body, and his own shaking and bloodied hands. He taps at his teacup, watching the tea ripple within.

 

Outside, the sozu clacks against stone.

 

“I will,” Genji promises. “Later.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

While Hanzo has built the habit of going to bed and rising at reasonable intervals, Genji often either stays up for days at a time or sleeps for days on end. It is easy for Genji to slip past the deepest, most heavily-guarded halls and to the cold chambers below. Many of the guards are his age, individuals that he’d trained with at some point. He’s careful to make sure that the smoke he uses for cover doesn’t catch on the lights, doesn’t linger long enough for anyone to recognize its smell.

 

As many times as he has done this in the past, however, there is always one person he can never fool so easily.

 

“You’re late,” says the family’s itako, a ghostly white greeting. The woman raises her head to train her unseeing eyes upon Genji, watching the energy teem around him. She cannot actually see him, but she has described his presence like a flock of sparrows: fickle, unbound. Bright and refreshing like a dewy morning. Genji is an early summer child, born into a world of late-blooming sakura and budding ume.

 

(Mother’s birthday is in spring).

 

“You sound like my brother, O-Chiyo.” He leans down, picks up one of her limp hands to kiss it. “Although your beauty far outshines his.”

 

“Such a frisky youth,” O-Chiyo titters, making a show of being embarrassed though she is not. Her long hair is as white as her clothes, tinted with molten glow from the firelight.

 

He grins, satisfied with her act. “Hanzo visited you earlier.”

 

“He came down here a few hours before tea ceremony,” O-Chiyo says, revealing her snaggle-toothed smile. “That frown has not left his face for many, many days.”

 

Genji sighs, seating himself by the spell-locked gate, shivers. “He’s being… difficult.”

 

“As are you, young lord.” She reaches into her robes and clutches the necklace of cracked bones and glass beads in her hands, as if praying. Talismans lay about her in seemingly scattered clusters, but Genji knows that moving even one out of place might warrant some minor mishap in the castle. The castle is old and has seen many wars, and ghosts are nothing if not vengeful relics of bloodshed.

 

“How is he?” he hazards. “I fear he may break from all his volitional suffering.”

 

O-Chiyo hums, a wavering noise that reminds Genji of smoke from incense, the cold rush of misogi. She is of an odd sort, brought in under the wing of Genji’s deceased mother. Pretty enough from a distance, but plain-faced and eerie up close. Her ears are a bit too big, lips a tad wide, eyes far too piercing despite their cataracts. Unassuming to most, but Genji knows better; there are heavy spells twined around her narrow fingers, capable of yoking any errant spirit to her will.

 

It is why she is the one to guard the great dragon lurking past the red gates. Any other person would cave to the mental stress from the dragon’s ire if left alone for long enough. Genji has tried sleeping down here, once, to escape from his brother’s scolding. He’d had a headache for days, and nightmares plagued him until he’d asked O-Chiyo to purge them from him.

 

She’s a scary person for having let him suffer like that knowingly.

 

“He may,” says the itako, which is entirely discomfiting.

 

“Father is on the brink of death.”

 

“And yet you still have not gone to see him.”

 

Genji shifts, restless and guilty. “You know why, O-Chiyo.”

 

“He does not have very long, young lord.” O-Chiyo’s voice echoes hauntingly as Genji stands and steps past the blockade of spells separating Hanzo’s dragon from the physical world. “Within a turn of the moon, the Shimada will know discord like never before.”

 

“Not long, indeed,” Seiryu laughs after the gates have closed. They are suspended within limbo, though Genji is not bound to such an unfortunate place. He looks up at the dragon’s bitter mirth, counts the jagged teeth. His own dragon is big enough that Genji could easily fit his torso between her canines, but Seiryu could swallow him whole and think nothing of it. A small wave to the entire ocean. “What have I done to deserve a visit from the brat?”

 

“You hurt Hanzo, earlier,” Genji says, sitting by one of the thick spell chains binding the dragon to the cold stone ground. The shikigami around them flutter like silver candlelight. He finds it pitiable that such a great, majestic creature has been rendered incapable of doing much more than speak and scratch at its master.

 

“Had you decided to claim me,” Seiryu muses, eyes narrow, “under certain circumstances, I might have allowed it.”

 

Genji laughs. “We both know that’s a lie. You only think I’d be easier to manipulate.”

 

“Perhaps so, perhaps not,” the dragon says and snorts as she extends one foreleg and her long, vicious claws. Sharp. They glint in the torchlight like poisoned blades. “Though with your dearest brother stretched so thin, he may be better suited as the puppet than you.”

 

“I’m surprised,” he murmurs, wary, “that you’ve haven’t tried killing him.”

 

“Oh, I have,” Seiryu says lightly, as if they are discussing a less morbid topic. “He’s a fussy man. It’s quite difficult to kill people like him.”

  
“And you’ve not changed your mind?”

 

“Pah!” the dragon spits, rough laughter like the rumble of an avalanche. She speaks with the force of a hundred howling storms. A god’s bitter mirth—coalesced into a guttural, _wanting_ voice. She wants for freedom, destruction. Genji imagines her as a terrible, terrible tempest at sea that drags souls to the deepest, darkest seafloor. “If he cannot claim me as his father did, then he shall be the one to suffer for it, not I.”

 

It is a sad fate—a god of the mountains chained to the cold earth, breathing naught but curses to deaf ears. Genji imagines Seiryu must miss the open skies and winds terribly. In the past, she had been a fearsome symbol of stormfall and mighty thunder; now, she is merely another spirit bound by the clan’s selfishness to humiliation and solitude.

 

 _What if I unbound her_ , he considers, not for the first time. He knows the necessary rite, the proper spells. It would be so easy for him to summon more spirits to do his bidding. So easy to draw spells into the sky and earth and breathe freedom into her chains.

 

A god’s savior. He doesn’t like the idea, but Hanzo might.

 

“Do not pity me, _boy_ ,” Seiryu growls, quick to bite after a moment of fleeting entertainment. “Leave me be! And take your tomfoolery elsewhere.”

 

He leaves, Seiryu roaring behind him as the gates shudder. The sound of straining chains is reminiscent of war: might against will.

 

O-Chiyo smiles at him as he sneaks up the winding stairs again, lonely and small next to the towering red gates. She knows far too much and says far too little. While he understands her neutral position regarding the balance of the Shimada, it is also unnerving. “Sleep well, young lord,” she calls, and the echoes of her voice are cut short by the iron doors swinging shut.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A fortnight passes before Genji manages the courage to walk up to the chief’s room. He smells strongly of alcohol and he’s pleasantly buzzed—on the verge of feeling sick—enough that he can mentally skip over the very long list of reasons why he _shouldn’t_ go visit his withering father. His clothes are in a state of shameful disarray, but that doesn’t stop him from glaring meanly at the guards who attempt to bar his entry.

 

“Young lord,” one of the guards pleads. “Forgive me, but perhaps you should visit at a later time?”

 

“You don’t have authority over me.” Genji barely suppresses his hiccup. He should be embarrassed, really, but he hardly has the mind to care when he’s had too much to drink. “Let me in, or I’ll really come to get you when I’m sober.”

 

The guards eye each other nervously, acquiescing only when Genji taps idly at the hilt of his wakizashi. Even drunk, Genji knows he’s a quick draw. They’ll probably call for Hanzo soon, since his brother is the only one who can really talk sense to him this late at night. That gives Genji a few minutes of quiet, and maybe a few more of unwanted family bonding before he passes out for the day.

 

The room is dark when he enters, lit in one corner with only a sad, half-melted candle. He squints at the shadow it casts over the washi and tatami for a few moments, then decides that he can’t manage standing upright for much longer and sits by the futon in the center. The covers appear brownish—almost bloody—in the dim setting, but Genji knows they are a pleasing hue of rose, hand-sewn by his mother so many years ago.

 

Golden thread for the plum blossoms and their rich petals, splayed across the quilt that houses cattail leaves. Genji reaches one hand out and presses down on a threadbare edge. His feet are already numb from kneeling in seiza, but he doesn’t possess the motor control to move without falling onto his face right now.

 

A moment. Genji hears his heartbeat more than he feels it: an unrelenting rhythm that reminds him of the o-daiko from sacred rites and passages, a steady pulse beneath the rush of spirit-chasing oroshi. Some say that the beat of an o-daiko is meant to imitate the footsteps of a mighty earth god, crushing erstwhile stone and scaring off other evils. To Genji, though, it is but a painful noise in his head, a dull headache that he knows will fill his head with regret come morning.

 

“How is Hanzo?” his father asks, face a tired, wrinkled mask. The corner of his lips are drawn into a sharp frown, made permanent from his bodily pains. “He never tells me how he is doing, merely that he will take care of everything.”

 

“Stubborn,” Genji says. “Like you, Father.”

 

His father sighs. It’s a wonder how air can leave his thin, wraithlike body. Already half-corpse, tethered to the living world with a few strands of soul and will. It is difficult to look upon his sunken eyes and sallow cheeks, the thin wisps of grayed hair. Magic is not kind to people like them. Born into a normal life, perhaps his Father would not look like a ghost at the age he is. “And how are you, Genji?”

 

“Drunk,” he replies. Then, more seriously: “Worried. Hanzo cannot control Seiryu.”

 

“One cannot force a dragon to obey, he should know—”

 

“He _knows_ , Father,” Genji groans, suddenly feeling entirely too sober and sane. He doesn’t want to be here, speaking with someone who may as well be dead. The world is not a nice place to live for people like them, and the dead have always been less kind. Who knows what sort of odious spirits are peering into this room through his Father’s tired eyes? Mother had been but a poor, poor vessel for the last few minutes of her life, so why not her husband, too? More quietly: “He knows.”

 

“Genji,” Father murmurs, eyes searching the dark shadow of his son’s face, but unable to find anything in the near-darkness.

  
“He has not been the same, Father. He has grown… hasty. Urgent. I smelled poison on the diplomats from the North some weeks ago, and he was unable to discern the danger.”

 

“But he is safe?”

 

Genji slumps forward. “Physically, perhaps. But I know little else. We had tea ceremony two weeks ago; Seiryu injured his arm.”

 

“You spoke with her,” his father says, admonishing even in his sickness. “You know that she is dangerous.”

 

“I’m not a child, Father,” Genji says, and sighs when the shoji to the room slide open. He really needs another drink.

 

Hanzo steps in, dressed in simple but elegant robe and trim, golden ribbon pleated neatly through his hair. Poise dignified, straight-backed and tall. Everything that they’d both been taught to be. Fresh from another meeting, Genji assumes, and he is somewhat bitter about their circumstances.

 

“I’m going to get another drink,” he says, and stumbles to his feet. The room seems to swim with a blur of color, but Genji snatches his arm away when Hanzo reaches out to steady him.

 

“You should retire for the night,” Hanzo says evenly, folding his hand back into his sleeves as if the gesture had not occurred at all.

 

“You are the one with a self-imposed curfew, brother.”

 

“It is one’s responsibility to take care of both body and mind.” Hanzo’s expression does not change, but there is clearly disappointment in his eyes.

 

Genji straightens himself the best he can, chin high and eyes narrow. “I spoke with Father, at the very least. Are you satisfied?”

 

“For now,” says Hanzo. “But I must discuss important matters with him. You may leave.”

 

He goes, silently fuming. Genji hears the echoes of dear brother’s disapproving, testy voice as he walks through the halls to his quarters: _he’s your favorite son. You coddle him._

 

A girl or two would be a nice distraction. He does know, in extensive detail, the places open until dawn throughout the town marked with bright, bloody lanterns. But he refrains for once and sets to grinding an ink stone until his fingers are black and aching. He sits outside under the full autumn moon and looks upon the castle garden’s humble flowers swaying in silver tranquility. There’s the koi pond he’d fallen in nearly every day as a child, reflecting the moon’s serene face to the open night sky.

 

Nai is above him, quiet, watching, a statue-like guardian perched atop the rooftop tiles. She dangles the wispy length of her tail close to his head. He paints a small white chrysanthemum for his mother and the hundreds of ghosts that had strangled her, then blots it out quickly with an angry smear of ink.

 

Genji readjusts the silk before him and closes his eyes, just long enough to remember the pattern of the ume his mother had stitched into their father’s futon.

 

And Nai swings her tail, waiting.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

On the night of the next new moon, Father passes away.

 

Genji is idling on the balcony lit with red lanterns, smoking with the kiseru the shopkeeper had lent him. Evenings have become cold, the nights even colder. Even without the smoke, his breaths would still be streams of quiet silver.

 

“You’ve been spending a lot of time here,” O-Mao says, reclining within the warmth of the room. Her pale skin glows in the sultry, romantic lighting, and her red lips have long since faded to rose. The silk spills around her hips as she sits up, unashamed. A pretty girl, a couple years younger than him, sold to the brothel when she’d been thirteen. He’s offered to buy her freedom, but she refuses politely every time.

 

 _I do not have a home to return to, young lord_ , she would say. _And you are not quite an honest man; to say you would settle down is to say that mountains could move_.

 

 _Just think about it,_ Genji would reply, and they would lapse into breathy silence.

 

“I always have time for you,” Genji says instantly.

 

O-Mao laughs. “More than usual, young lord. There’s something you’re trying to run from, isn’t there?”

 

“Can’t find a reason I shouldn’t visit you when I want.” Genji taps the remaining ash out of the kiseru, sets it aside, and steps back into the room. The clouds are dark and he can taste the hint of winter’s first snow heralding the skies. He wipes at the smudges of red on his neck and lies down, head on O-Mao’s lap.

 

“You are a favored guest,” O-Mao concedes, and drops the subject. “The girls try harder to be appealing when you visit.”

 

Likely to convince him to pay for their freedom, too. Genji knows that not all of the women here are happy. There are some of them that have known more than a life bound to nights and pleasures, some that have felt the mud between their toes after a storm, some that have seen more than wood-barred shoji and ugly faces. At the very least, the shopkeeper is kind to her workers, but not enough to let them go. Perhaps she believes it is better to protect them here, hidden away from the rest of the world. Or perhaps it would be more apt to compare her to a merchant and their obsession with hoarding precious wares.

 

The tea they serve here is always floral, decorated with scattered petals that settle softly at the bottom. Dried, they are dark stains against the porcelain. Most of his nights here are spent giddily, but on some occasions he will sit quietly in O-Mao’s quarters and numbly watch her pour tea, tuning out the noises from nearby rooms. When she knows he is stopping by, she will often change into the deep sunset-pink robes he’d bought her.

 

Pretty as a painting, he’ll tell her, and she will smile; around other customers, she keeps her lips pressed tightly together, but her crooked teeth are no deterrent for him.

 

There is a swell of thundering from outside. At first, Genji dismisses it as the coming storm, but he soon feels the change in the air and opens his eyes. A far-off noise of a mighty creature, growing closer the more Genji waits. He heads to the balcony, heedless of the cold air seeping into his half-open robes, and watches his brother atop a Kirin rush past in a flurry of flame. His hair has come loose, flowing in the wind like a stream of dark ink.

 

In the following seconds, Hanzo’s attendants, too, pass on their tired, earthy steeds. It cannot be easy trying to keep up with such a sacred mount, and he notes their grim expressions as they hurry to the castle gates. The hasty charge nearly looks like a sheer stroke of black over silk scroll. Inspiration for a painting, but he knows there is nothing good in seeing Hanzo abandon outside duties. The people in the streets who’d scattered like chaff slowly regather and murmur amongst themselves.

 

His heart weighs like a heavy stone in his gut, yet he remains surprisingly calm.

 

“Did something happen, young lord?”

 

“It’s nothing,” Genji says, closing the shoji and returning to her. He presses his palms into O-Mao’s sides and traces soft skin. Later, when he is breathless and trembling, he keeps his forehead pressed to her thin shoulder, unable to bear the clever gleam of her eyes.

  


* * *

 

 

 

Mother’s grave is the same as it always is—alone, a simple memory etched into the mountainside. The small dimple of her grave is indistinguishable if one isn’t looking for it. Shamans hadn’t let them bury her body near the castle grounds, fearing that the corruption that had taken her life would fester and cause imbalance. It’s a lie, Genji knows, but also remembers that the spirits of unjustly killed women are the most vicious, the most powerful. He wonders if her spirit has received enough prayer.

 

(If he has helped soothe her spirit any).

 

He sits and reapplies the protection spells pasted onto the headstone. Black ink over silk, his trembling hands on icy stone. The grave marker is a sad, humble little thing. Undecorated, easily bleached with sunlight without the overhead cover of a shrine’s roof. Where her living spouse’s name should have been written in red alongside hers, there is but a smooth face that stares back. Devoid of all flaws. He almost wants to tear it apart, maybe even decorate it with his own blood.

 

Genji remains kneeling in the carved depression and looks down at his hands. Bruises darken his knuckles; he’d knocked a few guards unconscious, earlier, when they’d tried to force him back to the castle. He should probably wear his gloves, since the weather has gotten colder and the winds in the mountain are never so forgiving, but he cannot bring himself to spare his chafed flesh. He tightens his fists and feels the pull of dry skin, close to breaking.

 

If his skin splits, blood would be a welcoming color into the numb white of the peaks.

 

He leaves a sprig of chrysanthemum upon her grave, next to stick incense and a plate of her favorite dango. Scatterings of faded ash mark where he has visited before. He wipes them away in a futile effort to clean. Soon enough, snow will cover the remnants of his last visit, and later, what remains after he leaves.

 

“I wonder where they’ll bury Father,” he says. The rich glaze of the dango has started to dull. “I don’t think I care too much, but Hanzo does. Greatly so, at that.”

 

 _Your father is dead?_ The mountains seem to ask. _And you are here mourning your mother?_

 

It’s markedly colder up here, but Genji forces himself to sit still and straight, head bowed. He doesn’t know if he’s asking for forgiven, asking to be spared, or maybe both. It won’t be long before the news reaches the rest of the village, and with how prevalent they are in trades, other towns will learn of their predicament very quickly. More assassins may flood in. More wealthy families with pretty daughters ogling the prospect of a pseudo-throne. Hanzo will take up the mantle, and Genji, well.

 

He would be expected to take the position by his brother’s side, but he is not confident he can do so anymore.

 

They’d dreamed of a happier life than this, he supposes. Genji has always been allowed to dream and taste the dazzles of sunlight before the festival lights would start to glow, to kiss dreams and drink from the clear streams a short trek away from the town. Tales of dragons and their might had always been so _fascinating_ , but he has never yearned to control them. He doesn’t believe spirits can truly be yoked to their will, anyways; what is one person to cloudburst and gale, to eternal silence and being?

 

For all he’s learned about the spirits through countless scrolls, he has only been told to fear the ones that cannot be disciplined. Mother had died to them, after all, the ones drawn in by the laughter and happiness they’d so craved. Genji had been so afraid of her white eyes and slack-jawed expression. Lessons are a scary thing, sometimes.

 

And he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the rancid warmth of human blood on his hands. The laughter of otherworldly venge.

 

“What should I do, mother?” he asks. The mountains echo back silence, the beginnings of snow casting a muting crown over their pale summits. Genji sighs and looks up to the sunless skies. It’s frigid, now, and his knees ache from sitting for so long. He should find somewhere warmer to stay before his toes turn black from the cold.

 

Before he reaches the weathered stone gate towards the middle point of the mountains, Nai alights beside him, hardly any darker than the flurries of snow around them. Eyes of unblemished red jade, glowing like lanterns in the night. Genji reaches out to run his aching fingers over her scales, thinks better of it, and continues walking.

 

He’d probably bleed. While he doesn’t mind the pain, his dragon has never liked the sight of his blood.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You were away for three days,” Hanzo says. He’s dressed in all black; while the formality of his dress is no different, he has never worn anything other than moderate shades and the occasional summer color.

 

“I was,” Genji says.

 

“Do you realize the graveness of your error? The elders are _appalled_ that you would leave knowing of Father’s untimely death, as am I!”

 

“Tell me something I do not know already, brother.”

 

Hanzo closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. He looks weary, like he hasn’t had a proper night’s rest in days. There’s a stray lock of hair that Genji reaches to brush away, but his brother leans back and fixes him with a disapproving stare.

 

“The funeral will have to be held the day after tomorrow,” he says. “You are fully expected to attend, and the elders will be positively thrilled to have a chance to chat with you.”

 

“I don’t wish to attend, brother.” Genji shakes his head when Hanzo opens his mouth in shock and outrage, pleading. “Do you know where I was the past few days?”

 

After a moment of thought, Hanzo frowns at his own conclusion. “You were not at the brothels.”

 

“I was visiting Mother’s grave. Replaced the seals and such while I was there. It’s as though I am her only visitor.” Genji looks at his brother, not admonishing, but not kindly. “How long has it been since you visited her?”

 

“We have other duties as the Shimada. Traveling to a single grave a good distance away is—”

 

“How long, brother?” he asks again, patient.

 

Hanzo stares at him coldly and does not reply. He leaves his teacup untouched and exits the room, footsteps silent on the tatami. Genji does not stop him; he sits by himself in the room and watches the candlelight flicker until the wax drowns the flame. Instead of calling for someone to clean up the teapot and cups, still full with oversoaked tea, he takes them down to the kitchen himself. The memory of his brother’s bandaged arm will not leave him at peace.

 

He does not leave the castle, but he also does not attend the meeting with the elders later in the evening. Genji takes the time to walk through the castle gardens, heedless to the slight chill that seeps in through his clothes. The moon is but a wan crescent in the sky, a luminous sliver reflected in the koi pond. He watches the koi swim lazily in circles. For the longest time there had only been two, but over the years, Genji had added the occasional goldfish from festivals. Now, the pond is an assortment of glimmering riches and pearls, glittering stone decorations that he’d thought the world of as a child.

 

“Sorry,” he says when some of them drift closer to where he kneels. “I don’t have anything for you to eat, today.”

 

That doesn’t stop him from wiggling his fingers in the water, though, from watching the koi dart away from the disturbance in the pond. The moon in the water splinters into hundreds of silvery shards, then slowly rejoins into something calmer, something less chaotic. It breaks again, occasionally, when a lingering autumn leaf floats past. Breaks, again, when smooth, scaly bodies churn the glassy surface.

 

On the fifth day after his father’s death, Genji does not attend the funeral. Hanzo does not try to reprimand him any further, but he does become noticeably colder. Less inclined to spend time with Genji, or even speak with him alone. More and more attendants seem to be following Hanzo around, these days, like crows to the aftermath of battle.

 

Security has been tighter around the dragon’s gate, recently, so he cannot sneak down to visit her as often as he had. O-Chiyo tells Genji to worry about himself more, asks him if he is wearing appropriate mourning attire.

 

Ever the obsessive diplomat, Hanzo has always made it a habit to dress for the occasion, putting thought into underlying messages in the prints of his robes. Genji honestly finds it a bit superfluous and vain (though that can be subjective, coming from him); it’s almost as if his brother lives thinking that every detail with be recorded, and analyzed later for depth and worth. Evaluated, he supposes, with the legacy of their ancestors to live up to.

 

And it has been worse, these past few weeks. Dark robes and somber patterns. Genji would almost think it is excessively dramatic, but he knows that these changes do not seem odd to anyone but him.

 

When he is not drinking tea with O-Mao, or perhaps with some other girls, or out with other noble sons his age, Genji finds himself inside more often, painting. He leaves the windows uncovered most of the time, and catches Nai peering in at him on occasion.

 

 _Plum blossoms,_ she seems to say, eyes narrowing at the silk screen. _In winter_.

 

He ignores her. Following tradition of drawing season-appropriate flowers is something he has never quite paid attention to. It’s mainly to distract himself from the prickling sense of unease. The winter air chills his hands and the exposed bits of his arm, biting and curious. Genji has never quite enjoyed cold weather, but he has fond memories of some of the years he’s spent running around in the snow, red-nosed and numb-footed and breathless.

 

How many winter days had he spent in bed with a fever, Hanzo just as sick and miserable as himself? How many nights spent huddled together as they’d pored over ghost stories they’d been told not to read? He finds himself longing for these simpler times, back when Hanzo hadn’t known of the attempts on their lives, hadn’t watched people drop dead without a noise.

 

(Back when the idea of an eternal dragon companion seemed less a burden, and more a dream come true).

 

Genji spends this night alone, tired lines of his face illuminated with the soft red of easy spells. After the initial few attempts to wheedle him into a meeting with the elders, his attendants have given up trying to guilt trip him. Amori, one of the elders less fond of Genji, has already tried to personally demand that Genji come out and explain himself at once. He doesn’t, of course; none of the elders are very fond of him, and he feels the same distaste for them. Many of them are only there with the help of blood money, anyways, illicit trade with the Murakami that have been hounding on their territory for _decades_.

 

Not all of the Murakami are bad. Not all of them contribute to the lack of difference between legitimate sea-faring merchants and pirates. Genji has met with a few who’d originally come from a different country entirely but hid under the name, brandishing marks of dragons of the sea rather than the sky. During the weeks he spent in Kagoshima, he’d absconded with another boy his age who’d loved the ocean more than anything else in the world.

 

That, and perhaps also Genji.

 

He died. Drowned with the corpse of an imugi strung to his throat.

 

(Genji hasn’t visited Kagoshima since).

 

“Lord Shimada has forbidden anyone from trespassing the grounds,” the guard says, impassive and steely. The stairs behind them seem steep and foreboding. O-Chiyo is nowhere to be seen, and that knowledge makes his gut twist with worry. Who is protecting the gate, then? Simple guards at the stairway will be capable of nothing in the face of Seiryu’s anger.

 

“What, did he say ‘don’t let Genji in, no matter what’ or something?”

 

“Those are our orders, sir,” the other guard says.

 

The ground trembles slightly, as if Seiryu is roaring. He imagines the click of bone talismans over wood, the shuddering groan of spellbound gates as they open, O-Chiyo’s wavering incantations. There is none of that, now, nothing but emptiness where her magic had once held the disturbing chill of the gate together. No white eyes to stare at his spiritual energy, no crooked smiles, no wooden prayer beads, no chilling call of his name.

 

“Where is O-Chiyo?” he asks, already dreading the answer.

 

“Lord Shimada had her expelled from the castle. A new itako will take her place.”

 

“But she was not executed?” he demands.

 

“Lord Shimada is not so cruel,” the guard says testily, and Genji mutters under his breath as he leaves quickly.

 

If O-Chiyo has been forced from the castle, it’s possible that Hanzo has already made plans to expel any individuals who are even remotely tolerant of Genji’s rebellious behavior. Prompted by the elders, most likely, though the more Genji thinks about it, the less confident he becomes. With their father gone, there is no one to prevent Hanzo from being misled. No one but Genji, maybe, but he’s no good at guidance and is disliked by a majority of their political partners anyways. Too many girls bedded and no real chance to rope him into marriage.

 

He isn’t the first son anyways; they wouldn’t have as much influence as they truly desire. What a shame that the first son of the Shimada clan is the embodiment of propriety.

 

He searches for the itako throughout the village, asking strangers about the blind woman who has always been a spiritual guide to him. She’d been the one to teach him to craft protective charms, how to carve spells and runes, how to dispel the bad dreams of his childhood. He is sure that O-Chiyo could have cursed a majority of the castle if she’d wished it, and to have her leave so quietly bothers him greatly.

 

He asks Nai about her, later, when he trudges back and clambers into his quarters through the window. Perched on the roof, the dragon hangs her head to fix her dark eyes on him. Genji runs his fingers along her snout, careful not to let his skin catch on the edges of her rougher scales.

 

 _You will not find her here_. Nai considers him a moment, snorting smoke when his touches grow tender around her scarred muzzle, her uneven whiskers. _Careful, now. There is still much misfortune to come_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It is a spring morning when Hanzo steps out from the dragon’s gate, arm glistening with blue and gold ink. His skin shimmers with the illusion of a thousand perfect scales, and the tips of his fingers are sharp, lethal. There is pride in the line of his shoulders, a juxtaposition to the grim set of his lips and his haunted eyes. He sleeps in what used to be Father’s quarters. There must still be unpleasant spirits that linger, no matter how the priests say they have cleansed the place—ghosts beneath his eyelids, demons at his throat.

 

“Congratulations, brother,” Genji says after a meeting he’d been forced to attend, and he means it. They have not been on the best of terms these past few months, but Hanzo is still his brother. He doesn’t wish ill upon Hanzo despite the measures the first son takes to reprimand him. “Are you free for tea ceremony this evening?”

 

Hanzo eyes him warily, stony-faced now that they are mostly alone. The guards remain stoic and unmoving, but Genji knows; he’s heard their small talk when they mistake the shadows on the walls as torchlight phantoms.

 

 _What a shame it is_ , they say. _The first son doing all the work while the second runs off like a child._

 

He’s considered putting laxatives in their drinks, once, or even marking them with a small spell to bother them with headaches for a day. Genji has long since realized that he is _bitter_. He despises sitting in on political meetings, two of which he has deflected a blade pointed at Hanzo’s throat, and one where the silver needle he’d dipped in Hanzo’s drink emerged black as tar.

 

Assassination attempts have become more frequent as of late. It’ll be perhaps another year or two before things begin to stabilize.

 

“You are offering to host tea ceremony?” Hanzo asks, and there is something like surprise, something like contempt in his voice. “I do hope you have bettered your timing with the tea leaves.”

 

“You’ll just have to see for yourself, won’t you?” Genji shrugs, taps his fingers on his knee. “It’s a personal commemorative from me, for after you finish official work with the others. You’ve managed to reign Seiryu in, and I’m proud of you, brother.”

 

Hanzo is strangely silent at that. The sleeve of his robe hides the inky expanse of skin beneath.

 

Nai had offered him a mark too, when they’d gotten over their initial hostility. He’d refused, more or less for personal reasons. One of them had been for his brother’s sake, since envy is an ugly, ugly thing, and no one is immune to it.

 

“I will meet you at sundown,” Hanzo finally says, folding his arms carefully. His movements are oddly stiff, as if he feels as though there is something malicious breathing down his neck.

 

Genji eyes his brother’s dark robes, frowning. “Wear something brighter, brother.”

 

He visits O-Mao that afternoon, slipping out through the garden and dropping crumbs in the pond as he sneaks off. Genji has been avoiding her for a good few weeks, traipsing off to other brothels to avoid her eerie perception. Perhaps in another life she had been a seer.

 

She begins to undress the moment they are alone, but Genji shakes his head and pulls her robes firmly over her shoulders. Yes, he has missed the sight of her smooth skin and her pretty eyes and pretty lips, but he is not here to demand pleasure of her. (Besides, smelling like sex wouldn’t bode well during tea ceremony with his brother).

 

“You have been avoiding me, young lord,” she says a bit petulantly.

 

Watching her pour the tea, Genji sighs. He can see spring blossoms from the slats in the window. “No I haven’t.”

 

“My lord,” O-Mao titters. “I am not stupid.”

 

“No,” he agrees with another sigh. “You are not.”

 

“We have seen many diplomats these past few months,” O-Mao says. “Many of them are from faraway villages, perhaps even from other countries. One of my customers was a pretty fellow from the peninsula. He seemed your type.”

 

“Huh,” Genji says. “If he ever comes back, try asking and let me know if he’s alright with me joining in.”

 

He sips at the tea, doing his best not to burn his tongue. It is a stronger flavor than the last time he had visited, a darker and deeper color. In the right lighting, it might even look like blood. He tries to brush that thought away. When he lays down, a cold hand sneaks into his robes and presses down over his heart. He shivers. O-Mao does not withdraw her hand even when he gives her a small glare.

 

O-Mao keeps her hand there until it has warmed to the point he can hardly feel it anymore. Long fingers, delicate nails, soft palm. He kisses her knuckles softly before he leaves, chasing the last of sunset as he rushes to the castle.

 

“You will visit again soon, won’t you?” O-Mao had asked.

 

“Of course,” he’d replied.

 

Now he sits numbly as he waits for his brother to enter the room, nervously keeping his eyes on the hot water. The tatami mats here are old and need to be replaced soon. They give the room an appearance of a golden box, lined with dark browns and paler yellow. The gold rims of the teacups glint in the light. When Hanzo finally shuffles in, he breathes easier.

 

“Better than your last attempt,” Hanzo says after a moment of silence. “But still needs work.”

 

Genji slumps over slightly, put off. He has been practicing to an extent, has been spending more time painting and measuring tea leaves. “I thought I had it this time.”

 

“Perhaps with more practice, then, but I will not tutor you on proper tea ceremony.”

 

It has been a long time since they’ve had a chance to properly converse with each other. Hanzo is either busy with meetings and duties or rather reluctant to allocate free time with Genji. In return, Genji is either pestering his brother with little success, or he is out of the castle and somewhere in the skies. With the recent months, their exchanges have become few and short, and mutual silence is no longer comfortable for them.

 

“I know I said this earlier,” Genji starts, “but I meant it: Congratulations, brother. I’m happy for you.”

 

Hanzo’s lips are a thin, unimpressed line. “I see.”

 

“You seem unhappy with me.”

 

“No, no.” His brother lowers his head for a moment, quiet with thought. When he makes eye contact with Genji, it is hard to read his expression. “I would like to fly with you, tonight. Seiryu has said she would be agreeable to an excursion.”

 

Genji thinks to how fidgety Nai is around greater dragons, and worries. His brother’s voice brokers no room for argument, though, so he nods.

 

The weather has begun to warm, now that spring is here with fresh pinks and green buds, but the nights are still cold. On Nai’s back, Genji reties the bright scarf around his neck, shivering in the night breeze. The village is a cluster of warm lights below them, homelier than the beautiful stars above. They both have intrigues of their own.

 

Seiryu, though, is a terrifying, magnificent sight in the skies. He can hardly see his brother astride her back, hands buried within her thick mane.

 

Nai ascends, breaking past a low-hanging layer of clouds. Behind her, a great, great blue shadow. Genji almost feels as though he is being chased. He wonders how they must look to any onlookers below: a lesser dragon snaking around the clouds, followed by a greater beast whose roar could shake the very mountains. Genji has always felt small when flying, awed by the expanse of the world around him, but this is different.

 

Uncomfortably different. Seiryu’s eyes glint maliciously.

 

Later when he turns around, the blue dragon and her rider are nowhere to be seen.

 

A storm rears from below, and Genji twists in panic. Seiryu’s eyes glow gold, not dulled any by the vicious moonlight overhead, and her teeth are jagged pillars that close around Nai’s body.

 

“Brother!” Genji shouts over the wind, vision blurry with pain. His legs are caught in place, bones shattering as Nai’s writhes, _struggles_ to escape. He reaches out to his dragon’s mind and feels nothing but _agony_. Guttural laughter and scalding heat, the smell of iron. “I thought you had control over Seiryu!”

 

He sinks deeper into the dragon’s maw and chokes on blood—he cannot tell if it is his own or not. There is something about feeling like he’s being burned alive; his skin feels as if it will burst, and there’s hopelessness, knowing that he cannot defeat a god.

 

They fall, sooner or later. The sky is a blur of silvery moon and constellations, the occasional ashy smudge of a cloud. Above them: two golden pinpoints and a slate grin, his brother’s arm marked by lightning, outstretched in a command.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He fades in and out of dreams, alternating between watching cascading waters and running from a hungry, blue-skinned demon. There’s a woman with golden hair, beautiful face but terrifying eyes, the smile of a sharp-fanged creature. She must be from the world of spirits. Genji cannot tell whether she is trying to treat his wounds or drive him to insanity with nightmares.

 

He has heard of a spirit like this, once: a girl who fell from the heavens and bathes in the waters of the ravines that broke her bones.

 

The first time he is able to sit up, it is dark and quiet, save for the sound of rushing water. A good distance away is a large, foul-smelling carcass. A massive stain of dried blood, shredded flesh, a gaping and bloody maw. Glinting green scales. He vomits to the side and curls in upon himself, overwhelmed with horror and pain.

 

She offers him a drink; it shimmers like liquid gold, glints with vicious, rough-toothed memories. It shines as though there is sunlight around them even when it is an entire world away. Deeper, within the humble cup the girl offers, there lies something sinister. Perhaps nothing inherently evil, no, but he cannot shake the feeling of unease. Genji closes his eyes. They sting, and he is not sure whether it is from tears of grief, or simply a reaction to the brightness.

 

“I don’t want it,” he croaks, only half-shocked at how wretched he sounds.

 

“Drink,” she says.

 

“Kill me instead,” he replies. The woman shakes her head and frowns, a strange sadness to her eyes. Reminds Genji of someone else dear to him. No more, he supposes.

 

The spirit insists, grin wide and horrifying. He drinks messily, and where the gold traces his throat, it burns.

 

After the spirit sets Genji adrift a gentler current, a tengu alights carefully on a nearby stone, pulling him from the poorly crafted raft. He is still unable to see very clearly, but Genji finds that the brass staff and red mask are very distinct, almost familiar. Broad black wings, rustling softly as leaves do in the wind. Brass looks like gold against the tengu’s brown skin and storm-colored robes. A sash the color of the sky.

 

Golden eyes. Genji takes in a shuddering breath and looks away sharply. He feels dizzy, but not as ill. There’s something odd in how light his body feels.

 

“Just leave me be,” he says irritably, turns his head completely the other way. Sunlight is a distant, unreachable reprieve above. Soft white dapples at the precipices of the ravine, giving the deceptive appearance of a softer edge. Why a creature associated with heavens and power would fly down here, Genji has not a clue.

 

“Your wounds are quite severe,” says the monk, beads clattering as he kneels by Genji's side. "It is fortunate that another spirit saw fit to retrieve you from your fall. Otherwise, you may have drowned had you been left there any longer, whether it be from blood or water." He gives another small pause, dark skin seeming to blend in with the shadows. Despite it all, his eyes are unfathomably _kind_. “There is great discord within you; perhaps that should be expected after experiencing something as close to death as you have. You seem to have consumed a… healing remedy. Of sorts.”

 

“I would be better off dead,” Genji retorts. Had he enough strength or feeling in his arms, he might’ve searched for his wakizashi. It’d be hard to cut his stomach cleanly with such shaky grip, but he would try.

 

“I am very glad you are alive,” the monk continues, places a hand over Genji’s forehead. The touch is warm and soothing. “There is not much I can do to heal your heart if you wish against it, but I will do my best to help you find spiritual peace.”

  
“I don’t want your help.”

 

“Your dragon would not have willed the same,” the tengu replies calmly, eyes carefully examining the scale-patterned injuries on Genji’s palms. Genji bares his teeth angrily. “I am quite young compared to other monks, and have thus not seen the great blue dragon before. But I do know that she bodes ill upon much of the world that has tried to cage her.”

 

“Well,” Genji laughs bitterly, and winces when pain lances through his gut. “I can’t do much about that.”

 

The river had carried Genji south, past all the mountains. He cannot see much of Nai left behind. At Genji’s reluctant behest, Zenyatta shows him what he had seen of the dragon’s remains. Scraps of scale crushed over rock, pieces of flesh drifting down the current, dark stains smeared over water and jagged shores like impure oils. These memories play over the bubbling current until Genji can look no longer, and he closes his eyes and seeks the dark and silence.

 

“When your body has healed some more, I will fly you to a safer location,” Zenyatta tells him, pulling the outer layers of his robe off to lay over Genji’s body. The fabric is warm, smells of flowers and incense and tea.

 

For the most part, at least until the tengu is no longer within earshot, Genji keeps himself from crying. But gazing up at the faraway skies under the cover of robes not his own, and cold stone against his aching back, he cannot help the tears that leave stinging trails down to his ears.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The ravine is a tricky thing—seems wide enough to cage a dragon, but at times seems so narrow that Genji feels there is no room to breathe. He wonders how he’d survived such a fall, or if he had survived at all. Maybe this is his afterlife: a bleak, dark path meant to punish him. He thinks of his brother’s impassive face and arm marked by storm and thunder. It is difficult to be fond of him, now.

 

When he is able to move without the remnants of fire hissing through his nerves, Genji sits up and runs his hands down the scars, tries to see his reflection in the humble pool where the river ends. An angry red star on his shoulder from where Seiryu’s fangs had sunk deep, an ugly field of half-healed blossoms across his back, imprints of broken scales upon his palms. He dares not look long at his face in the waters, fearing the worst from what unevenness his fingers have mapped.

 

Vain, vain!

 

Zenyatta alights to discover him mostly submerged in the water, teeth chattering, blue from the chill. The throb of his burns has been replaced with something harder, pushing past the numbness. The monk says nothing as he gently tugs Genji back onto land. Genji cannot feel anything but the cold for a good few hours.

 

“I’ve brought you something to eat,” Zenyatta finally says, once the little campfire has steadied. He pulls a small pot out from his robes, sets it atop the fire to warm. “Nothing quite solid, of course; I’m afraid even porridge may be hard on your stomach.”

 

“Why do you bother?” Genji manages between his shaky breaths.

 

“It would go against my beliefs to pass by someone in need,” the monk says. “Moreover, it would be cruel to leave you half-stranded in the world of spirits.”

 

Genji pulls the robes more tightly around his shoulders and remembers how pale his skin looks. It’s not something he’d expected, but he isn’t really shocked by it either. It must be from the golden drink the spirit had offered him; a sweet nectar, warm and sharp like the twist of a blade in flesh. A shame he’d spat some of it out.

  
“You do not seem so surprised,” Zenyatta notes.

 

“Mother and Father died from spiritual causes,” Genji shrugs. “My brother controls a god. This isn’t unusual.”

 

“He believes he controls a god,” the monk corrects. “A big difference.”

 

“You say so as if Seiryu told him to kill me,” Genji says, mostly sarcastic, then pauses. “Ah.”

 

Zenyatta wraps a thick cloth around the bottom of the small pot, offering the broth as well as a wooden spoon. Genji is overwhelmed by yet another moment of feeling _betrayed_ , and grips the spoon with so much force the wounds on his fingers threaten to tear open. He stares down at the steaming broth with blurry vision, and looks up to find that the tengu is watching him patiently.

 

He burns his tongue on the soup, but it is not a pain worth paying mind to.

 

On cloudy days, the depths here are an endless void. Genji tries wandering, once, and soon finds himself falling into a body of water he couldn’t see, _sinking_. There’s ice in his bones.

 

Zenyatta’s staff glows brightly, despite the darkness, and the luminescent beads around his neck remind Genji oddly of some sort of noose. He waits for Genji to recover his breath before offering dry robes again. Genji would honestly prefer to be left to his own thoughts, but the monk seems to read into his self-destructive tendencies, especially the ones that surface when he is without company. He clutches at the thick fabric with his shaking hands and tries to fight off the chill by pure will alone.

 

(It does not work).

 

Zenyatta lights a fire.

 

“You seem to be well enough if you are moving around already,” Zenyatta says, cross-legged on the opposite side of the flames. His mask reflects some of the firelight in soft, muted tones, lighter hues curving over its smooth surface. His wings are so dark it is nigh impossible to see their full shape without proper light. “Perhaps it is time that you depart from here.”

 

“And go where?”

 

“I had considered taking you to other mountains for training,” the tengu replies, eyeing Genji carefully. “They are, after all, well-known grounds for both of us. But perhaps they are not the friendliest of places.”

 

The valley of Hanamura should still be in full bloom, Genji thinks. Pretty, pretty pastels fluttering around like snow, shrouding the village in a velvety blanket of blossoms. He had frequently gone flower-watching, both with others and alone, for the months of spring and early summer. Sakura are, after all, the best painting subjects until the plums start to drop. Festivals—those marked by romantic lighting and paths strewn with petals—have always held a place dear in his heart.

 

“Where else am I to go?” Genji asks bitterly. Ever since he’d fallen, he has felt nothing but _cold_. He digs fingers into palm and watches unfinished spells curl like smoke from his hands. He wishes he could see the flowers.

 

“The sea,” the monk says without hesitation. He tilts his head, considering Genji’s expression, and adds: “It is a wonderful location for meditation practices.”

 

“The Shimada still have influence over the coasts.”

 

“Then we will simply have to find a sea yet untouched by them.”

 

Genji glances behind him where the water passes slowly but surely. Somewhere distant, there is the waterfall and a rotting carcass, shining bones. “What of—” he starts, and is unable to finish past the sudden grief in his throat.

 

“Her body will see no harm down here,” Zenyatta assures. “And her spirit is not lost.”

 

They leave the ravine before the next evening. Genji is not carried atop Nai’s back as he has been for years, but by wings darker than night. Unable to bear the familiar sight of the mountains and trees beneath them, he keeps his eyes trained on the horizon. He is so ghostly—the sunset shines right through his skin, painting his body into a part of the darkening sky.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The village here reminds him of Kagoshima: quiet, nestled into a niche by the sea and a nearby mountain he escapes to from time to time.

 

There is a boy with horns, here. A girl with no arms, an elderly man missing half his jaw and one foot, a mute mother. A few other kind villagers. None of them are half-trapped in the spirit realm, it seems, but they do not consider Genji a stranger. Many of them have seen spirits and demons and a few creatures in between. They teach Genji to fish, how and where to throw the net, which winds are best for sailing and which signal dangerous waters. 

 

The horned child often clambers aboard the rickety boat to watch Genji fish, eyes fixed raptly on cresting waves, then at the scarring on his hands.

 

During the first few weeks he is there, he is frantic about warding the place with scattered spells, at least to protect himself from the nightmares. They do not speak ill of him, thankfully. One of the fishermen offers to help, since he is the only one with some knowledge of writing. This place is not burdened by lingering spirits, however; they must be content with all the prayers and offerings the villagers put out to the small shrine. Genji places bone talismans and wooden charms around the perimeter anyways, just in case.

 

On days that the tides are low and the moon is far, Genji is often faint and nearly see-through. The mother stays by his bedside when Zenyatta is away, brushing his disheveled hair aside with a heart-aching fondness. He is unable to think of a proper way to thank her, so he scratches a messy flower arrangement onto an old sheaf of parchment with charcoal. She is overwhelmed with happy tears, and he is both embarrassed and relieved.

 

“Do the low tides still bother you greatly?” Zenyatta asks when he has returned from a pilgrimage into the mountains. The villagers will see other tengu flitting about on occasion, but they do not visit the village; from the distance, it would be easy to mistake them as massive crows. He kneels beside Genji, painting black spells onto the marred skin of his back.

 

“Better, I think,” Genji says. He feels less like he will disappear when the moon is full and heavy in the sky, but the sight of her brings back terrible memories. During low tide, he is careful not to wander too far, lest he collapse into a heap of incense and jade wishes. “I’m conscious most of the time now.”

 

He has befriended a few imugi too, he thinks. Dao, the young demon child, is rather fond of speaking with them whenever they bump past Genji’s boat. A few of them rear up to drop shiny findings onto his lap—a mixture of stones, pearls, and mussels.

 

Once the monk has finished writing the spells, Genji sits up and pulls his robe around his shoulders. His body still aches, sometimes; he will wake from nightmares, so quietly that no one hears. When he goes out for fresh air, Zenyatta will already be waiting.

 

“You seem more at ease,” Zenyatta says approvingly, proudly. “Less angry.”

 

“I have forgiven him,” Genji says.

 

“But?”

 

“But,” he agrees, “I will not wish the best for him.”

 

Hyun brings them tea, later, managing to balance the tray of cups in one hand as he stumbles forward with his cane. Genji catches the old man before he can fall completely, and receives grateful laughter in return.

 

“Better?” Hyun asks before Genji has even taken a sip, grinning crookedly as Genji rushes to drink.

 

“Better,” Genji says seriously, even though Hyun’s tea is probably the best he has ever had. The old man is constantly striving for being better, which—Genji understands. He doesn’t say anything about it, accepts it for what it is.

 

He watches the moonlight scatter over the rising and falling sea as Hyun happily stumbles back to his hut. The tengu stares at the side of Genji’s face, already knowing that Genji has something more to say.

 

“I think,” he pauses to kick at the water as it rushes in, “I will venture down to Nai’s bones when I am better at rock climbing. I have much to tell her.”

 

Zenyatta hums his agreement. The moonlight over water continues to break into slivers with every breath the sea takes. From the shores, the imugi appear as strangely colored koi in a pond, swarming around the silver shards as though they are breadcrumbs. Green scales shimmer above the swell of the ocean. Before Genji is able to look any closer, though, the tail disappears, and leaves the sea to wink at him.

 

 _I must be dreaming_ , he tells himself, and falls asleep watching the stars fade to dawn.

 

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
